Playing for Keeps
by x Bout as Stable as the Wind x
Summary: Hannibal is strung up on a wall, and before him is a table. At that table sit Murdock, BA, and Face. In front of them lie a pile of files and a loaded Ruger Blackhawk pistol chambering one, and only one, bullet. See, a man, formerly known as Agent Lynch, has crawled out of the cracks in the floorboards like a cockroach. And he has a game to play with the A-Team. [not a slash fic]
1. Chapter 1

**Warning:** This story has been rated for the mentioning - no graphic details - of potentially triggering and mature topics in the future, including the topics of non-con and abuse. It is also rated for language and violence, including torture.

* * *

"Wwwwakey, wakey, John. C'mon now." A light slap to the cheek. Playful. Mocking. "Open 'em eyes for me, will ya?"

The voice is oddly familiar but the semi-conscious man can't call to mind a name or face to go with the singing tones; mainly because everything still sounds like he's underwater, and his head hurts like a _bitch_. Upon this realization, a groan rumbles deep in his chest, not yet escaping his lips, but it still must be audible enough to be heard before the tapping against his cheek stops, and he can sense the smile leeching across the other's lips without even opening his eyes.

"Atta boy, Johnny. Was afraid I'd have to kick out one of the boys' knees or something, let their screams wake you up. You know, like birds chirping in the morning."

Now _that_ sociopathic comment spurred John "Hannibal" Smith's mind into full throttle just like a big gulp of 5 hour energy or a swift kick to the rear. Biting back any future groans by setting his jaw tight, gray-blue eyes groggily blink open, vision blurry at first. There is definitely someone in front of him though, and it is definitely a man – a _familiar_ man. The lighting in whatever room he is in – and he can tell it's a room, the air tastes stale and it's too chilly to be out there in the warm July season – is too white and too artificial. It hurts his eyes. But slowly, things begin to swim into focus, and the first thing that does is the smile that he just _knew_ was there. Somehow, it reminds him of a snake; even if those don't really smile at all.

" _Now_ we're ready to get his party started!" the smile laughs, drizzling Hannibal's lower jaw with spittle that he doesn't escape even as he turns his head; god _damn_ his head hurts, and the horrid shouting isn't helping either. It spins, and the man tries to remind himself why he bothered coming back to miserable consciousness in the first place.

The voice that suddenly speaks up from a few feet behind the snake smile is what hammers the answer to that question firmly in place. "Get away from him you crazy fucker." The voice is low, and growling; a thunderstorm between two lips.

BA.

Bosco Baracus has a certain tone – not even a voice, a _tone_ – that could shake the dead from their graves, and it were those kind of tones that one could never forget even if they tried. And it reminds him of the threat that had shaken the man out of blissful unawareness. _Was afraid I'd have to kick out one of the boys' knees or something, let their screams wake you up._ Boys.

 _His_ boys.

Immediately, a stiff neck snaps up and Hannibal is peering past the man with the snake smile to catch sight of the room he's – a large room, entirely empty, with a few white florescent bulbs illuminating what gives off the 'serial killer basement' vibe. There's a heavy oak table nearby, only ten feet away from him, bolted into the cement ground (adding onto that 'basement' suspicion).

And there he sits, BA, glaring coldly at the man with the snake smile, seated on the left, still in the black jeans and gray long-sleeve Hannibal remembered him wearing this morning. On his right, at the far head of the table, is Murdock, his beloved cap nowhere to be seen and thus exposing wild black hair that just adds onto the his crazy appearance. His eyes are wide, like a frightened child's, and they are glued to Hannibal himself as he fidgets in sweatpants, a white undershirt, and a dirty, unbuttoned Hawaiian t-shirt.

And to _his_ right sits Face, the young man looking at neither Hannibal nor his tormenter; instead, blue eyes are staring straight up at the ceiling tiles, every muscle in his body wound so tight that Hannibal can feel the tension even from this distance. He's in normal jeans, a black t-shirt, and a simple black jacket; his face flickers as he switches and flips through different expressions and facial masks so fast the colonel can't even keep up. He can tell, though, that Face is looking for just the right façade to use to deal with the situation; as if _genuine_ fear or concern or emotion were an impossibility. All three men seem to have one hand chained directly against the table so that they couldn't lift their palm or lower arm from the wood – the other limb cuffed to the bound one.

And finally, the man with the snake smile himself comes into focus; blonde hair smoothly slicked back, icy eyes twinkling. Cheeks as pale as an infant's ass all rosy with a calm excitement that's barely contained. Hannibal's only ever seen him without his cool, Ice King expression once before; and it was as he stood ready to put a bullet straight through the colonel's head, _after_ already putting two into his Kevlar vest.

"Lynch." The name is spat out of his mouth as if he were spitting out a lemon seed, just as sour, just as distasteful.

"John." Lynch's tone carries the same disapproval, the same loathing, but instead of dipping down, his voice goes up. Derisive. Sneering. It sends a burst of anger rushing through the old soldier like nothing he'd felt since last seeing the man's young, ugly face one year ago. The fact that it's not 'colonel' or 'Smith' but ' _John_ ' gives the man the unwanted feeling that this isn't some official CIA interrogation.

Or maybe, all this betrayal and frustration and hatred between the two men has finally just bound them together in a way that runs deeper than any relationship fathomed by mankind. Hannibal nurses the sarcastic thought in order to engineer his own matching sneer. "I'm going to guess that you and your goons are the ones that set up this whole shebang," he grunts, keeping his gaze firmly drilling through Lynch despite seeing in the corner of his eye how Murdock's fidgeting kicks up about ten degrees. "Doesn't really surprise me; some people don't learn the hard way _or_ the easy way."

"Always quick with your tongue, aren't you, John," is the cool response, Hannibal's words failing to wound that once so-so sensitive ego of his; he'd built walls, he'd thickened his skin. He'd spent a year planning out exactly what he was going to do to Hannibal Smith and his team, exactly what he was going to say, and damn him if he's going to let 'sticks and stones break his bones'. "Now _that_ doesn't really surprise me. Not like I could believe Peck picked up the skill all on his own – any skill, really. It all, ties back, to you in the end. Doesn't it?"

Lame jabs at his comrades. Hannibal lifts his chin and hardens his gaze, the sneer smoothing into a familiar, defiant smirk. "Are you looking for some advice, Lynch? Finally trying to scrape yourself up from the bottom of the barrel?"

"Oh no. No, no, no, John, I'm fine _right_ where I am," is the hot breath of a response; Lynch can feel the anger squirming like maggots under his skin, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. And only now does Hannibal feel the cold metal being run over his skin, just beneath his jaw. It's the familiar sensation of having a gun stuck right beneath his chin, and his eyes narrow even more, if possible. "Now the CIA has always had the cooler rules, but… when you're where _I_ am? _No_ rules apply, and that's." A laugh. "That's just the coolest."

"You say that as if we're still tethered to those same rules ourselves," Hannibal states firmly, chin still lifted, lips still pressed into a thin, determined smirk. "We make our own rules but we _conform_ to morals. You don't. You're a sociopath in cufflinks, Lynch. A worm who dreams of playing God. Now I don't know _what_ the hell you are trying to gain by bringing us here but I can ensure you, all you've guaranteed yourself so far is…"

"A royal beating, a four man army declaring war on myself, a swift kick in the _ass_ ," Lynch cut him off, each word oozing with contempt. "Do you really think you're in the position to be dealing out threats, John? _I_ mean…"

The blonde man slowly stepped back and outspread his arms. " _Look_ at you all! My own special edition A-Team collection."

Hannibal's now able to view the pistol in his right hand; view fully obstructed, headache currently shoved into the furthermost corner of his focus, Hannibal finally viewed the table in front of him and the men who sat at it. BA's glare trailed Lynch wherever he went, but Murdock's gaze was now flashing between Hannibal, Lynch, and Face. Face himself, at some point, had turned his gaze from blankly counting ceiling tiles to locking onto his colonel – and Hannibal could hear easily the words being screamed at him silently. _What's the plan? Where's the escape hatch? What do we need to get, and what do we need to do, to get out of this one, boss?_

Hannibal, turns back to Lynch quickly but not before giving the _slightest_ of head shakes towards his Lt. _No plan, not yet. Stay put, stay smart, and keep yourself alive_. Face, in turn, just nods once, a simple tilt of the head, and then finally turns his attention to an anxious Murdock.

"So that's what this is then, Lynch?" Hannibal shoots at the ex-CIA once he sees Face turn away and relay his silent message to BA and Murdock in a murmur. "Just a chance for you to gloat and boost your deflating ego?"

"Mmm, you'd like that, wouldn't you. You're there, all strung up like a piece of _meat_ , and you're praying I start getting cocky. Sloppy. Looking for a way to pull of yet another one of your great Hannibal Smith schemes, right? Probably already had a full on conversation with Peck or Baracus, right? All your pretty little heads, scheming away, like you're playing a goddamn game."

While speaking, Hannibal notes two things: one, that Lynch is now lazily beginning to pace around the table, sending uncomfortable bursts of defensive, threatening anger shooting through as he slides along behind Face, then Murdock, then BA. Enjoying how close he can get without a chance of retaliation.

Secondly, Hannibal hadn't even bothered to look and see how he was restrained; and now he realizes it's because his hands are entirely and totally numb. So are his arms, which a tilt of his head as Lynch goes on and on shows him he's hanging from his cuffed hands against a cold wall, toes _just_ pressed against the floor. The manacles are welded, suspended from a chain that disappears into the ceiling. The restraints look menacing, but he's escaped harder.

Lynch is right; he is already scheming away, even as the man looks absolutely infuriated for a few minutes that Hannibal doesn't seem to be getting the _severity_ or _gravity_ of the situation.

"Well it's my turn now, Smith, and _I'm_ the one whose picking the game."

And _there's_ that cold, professional, chiseled-from-hell's-glaciers tone; no more mocking sing-song voice, no more 'John's'. We're down to business now, and Hannibal is forced to turn his full attention to Lynch when he suddenly slams the pistol hard down onto the table, causing the man's heart to stop for just a second before from the force of the damn movement, Hannibal feels it's a miracle the gun didn't go off. The others must feel the same way because even BA startles in his seat; Murdock's ass flies clear off, eyes bugging out of his skull; and Face shoves himself back as far as he can in the chair that's apparently bolted to the ground as well, an irritated and tense, "Jesus Christ!" escaping his throat.

Lynch leaves the gun lying there, a sleek black Ruger Blackhawk that the man obviously worked to find and get; and it shows just how goddamn _dramatic_ he fears things are going to get within the next few minutes – or hours. The blonde man enjoys watching the smirk leave Hannibal's lips. Revels in how BA is growling, Murdock is shaking, and Face is staring at the gun like it's a snake ready to bite him.

Holy shit. He feels high as the fuckin' roof right now, and it shows as he straightens, steps away from the table and the gun, and then mockingly clamps both hands down on Murdock's shoulders, giving a fake little message to them. Relishing every tremor he felt running through the pilot's thin body.

"And Smith." The grin, impossibly, grows wider. "This time, we're playing for keeps."


	2. Chapter 2

One hour earlier and the scene had been far different. There was no Agent Lynch, a ghost from the past, slamming any gun on the table with vague threats of ominous doom. No Hannibal either, strung up on the wall like a piece of meat. It was just the three of them, "Howling Mad" Murdock, Bosco "Bad Attitude" Baracus, and Templeton "Faceman" Peck; sitting at that table as if ready to play a game of cards. Except the setting was lacking the booze, the laughs, the actual cards, and the ability to move their hands.

Murdock wished that there was at least _some_ chatter; with the slightest of sounds, the man could've constructed an entirely different scenario in his head, a vast game of pretend, to keep the panic at bay. But there was nothing. Even Face's normally defiant and smirking expression was blank and tight in frustration, matching BA's – and the dark-haired man squirmed in the quiet of it all.

Finally, when the tapping of his feet against the cement floor could no longer satisfy that craving for something – anything – other than the quiet, he gave a long, exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. "So where do you think…?"

"Fool, if you're about to ask where Hannibal is, I warned ya I wouldn't hear it no more…"

Oh, that's right. He'd asked that question quite a few times (a dozen to be exact) in the last fifteen minutes, and BA had graciously responded with a threat to tie his lips together should he ask yet another time. Murdock clamped his mouth shut, after hastily apologizing. His feet rapped against the floor even faster.

"C'mon man, he's just worried. We all are."

Good old Face – always defending him. Murdock sent his friend a small smile in thanks, as he rapidly nodded, ignoring the glare the bigger man shot the blonde for interfering after he'd just gotten the pilot to shut up. "Yeah, Bosco, worried is all, I mean. Lynch said he'd gotten his hands on 'im…"

"Don't mean he _actually_ got his hands on him," BA rumbled in response. "Fucker didn't give us no proof of that – and Hannibal's not stupid."

"No. But neither are we, and well." Murdock rapped on the cuff that kept his left hand pinned down, the metal cold upon his touch. It sent shivers up his spine.

He'd never liked restraints; of any kind.

"Look, Murdock, even if Lynch does have him, the boss always has a plan." Face speaking up once again, trying to be reassuring. Always keeping positive in the worst of situations, smiling through pain, laughing through fear… Murdock glanced at the younger man, and tried to see behind the mask that at the moment looked so confident in their boss's capabilities – he was better at it than most people. Though right now, all he caught was the slightest glimpse of uneasiness in the way the man held his shoulders. "Remember, Lynch is _nothing_ anymore; not CIA, not military like Pike was… it's only a matter of time before we beat his ass. Again. This is just us waiting out and running down the time."

Murdock pursed his lips, nodding slowly as BA hummed. The bigger man finally bothered to push past his own irritation and frustrations to add onto Face's words, "Faceman's right. This ain't nothin' to sweat over."

BA glanced at Face as he spoke, and the pilot didn't not notice how the two men shared one of _those_ looks. Murdock certainly wasn't the youngest member of the team, but there were times where he felt like the child. The baby. Toddler. With a father and two brothers constantly treating him as such. Of course, he _knew_ that wasn't what they were doing; these men were one of the _only_ ones who'd ever treated him as an equal in anything… But there were those looks. BA and Face, sharing a quick conversation with just a look, blue eyes clashing with dark in silent agreement over their situation despite their resolute words, and Murdock left to only guess what they were discussing. Probably something grim and ominous that they didn't want triggering any crazy panic.

Even if Hannibal had a plan, they had no idea what that plan could possibly be; a _very_ large disadvantage on their part. In fact, in all aspects, the team seemed to be at the disadvantaged side in this situation – separated from Hannibal, unarmed, heads still pounding, with Lynch having improved his game enough to somehow round them all up for this showdown.

Aka, it looked like they were _screwed_ for the time being.

And damn it! Murdock was a Ranger! They didn't need to give him false promises of hope and bravado, and then tell each other something entirely different when they turned away. In fact, Murdock was just about ready to slam his free hand down onto the table and say so, all ready to make this very important announcement, when a door somewhere in the back shadows swung open, hinges screeching, and putting a halt to his plans. Footsteps, clipping and precise, came towards them, and moments later, a blonde head of hair was baptized with the artificial white light from the bulbs above. The door was directly behind Murdock, and the pilot couldn't see the man approaching; he didn't have to, knew who it was even with Face's eye roll and BA's growl.

"Gotta say, I'm rather disappointed in you fellows," was Lynch's greeting – _Vance_ , Murdock reminded himself, this was no agent anymore, there were no rules. Their captor stepped over until he was standing in front of them all, at the other side of the table, opposite of Murdock. He cast a very patronizing look over each one of them, but the gaze – he felt – lingered on Murdock the longest. "All those impossible missions completed, all those miraculous escapades and legendary feats… I was expecting to come into this room and find you guys long gone. Or at the very least, waiting to pounce on me as I walked through the door."

Vance whistled slowly, in a "tut-tut" way, and shook his head. "Like I said: disappointing."

Of course, Face was the first one to respond to that, a crooked smirk stepping across his face; both soldiers knew what it meant, and BA was halfway through shaking his head "no" when the youngest team member began his quips and retorts. "You know what's really disappointing? The fact that it took a whole year for this shindig to get set up. I almost feared you'd forgotten about us." A snort. "Good to see you still deliver, even if at the same low, laughable level you always worked at."

"Oh, don't try that whole 'I'm-right-where-I-want-to-be' crap, Peck." Vance's face curled from a smirk to a sneer so fast, it was like watching metal melt, or cheese curdle. His cold gaze once more roamed over each of them, and Murdock finally decided: yes, Vance Burress, with no limits and no more legal agendas, was far more intimidating than Lynch ever was. Not in the _scary_ sort of way, but in the dreadful. Like ever shimmer in those eyes was promises to ruin them, maybe not in a fight, but in all those sneaky government ways that he knew he could use without any risk to his position anymore.

So while Murdock distanced himself mentally from the situation, and tried finding a name for their captor in his head that wasn't 'Vance' or 'Lynch', the man himself continued, "This is my game now. You're in my home field, we're playing by _my_ rules… mine. Everything right now is mine. The advantage, your lives, your thoughts…"

"So is this what this is then? The cliché old _ha ha, I'm the villain and I got you guys and now I'm going to show you just how mighty I am_ scene from every movie ever, before we stomp your ass?" was Face's scoffing response, a hollow laugh and smirk accompanying the words. "Are you serious right now? Is this some sort of lame DC Nation comic-remake, like Batman or, or…"

Murdock spoke up almost unintentionally, mind almost immediately grasping onto the word _Batman_ and thus, switching his focus onto it. "Hey now, I liked the old series. It was fun."

"It was shit, Murdock, c'mon man. Even you had to agree it was…"

"Nothing beats the classics, Face!" Voice raising, filling up with a sudden passion and determination that seemed more fitting for a coach to use to get his team to the super bowl. His right hand jerked, as if to slam against the table as he'd been tempting to do before - and it did, but much of its force and power was hindered by the chain that's cuffed to the brace on his other arm. "I mean, take all of 'em old shows for example, every single one of them was the highlight of television back in the day! They were a prime specimen of…"

BA closed his eyes in a manner that very much said "I can't believe what I'm witnessing", while Lynch watched with a face that was growing less-and-less amused as time passed. He finally spoke up once more when Murdock began his insights on the secret government messages he was convinced were hidden in the original I Love Lucy series, by hitting his own closed fist onto the table. "Enough!" Blue eyes narrowed, impatience written in every stretched line of the man's face. This was the only time that the hint of a smirk slid across BA's face; though it was quickly hidden as Vance shoved himself back into a straightened position, running a hand down his face.

"I do not know _how_ you have managed to evade law enforcement for so long… but at least it's pretty obvious why you just couldn't manage to evade _me_."

"Really," was Face's scoffing reply. "Because last I check, we _beat_ your ass last time…"

There was no warning when the fist suddenly collided with the young man's face, sending spit and blood flying as Face's head violently was whipped to the side. There was a loud threat suddenly erupting from BA, a startled jump from Murdock. Face, once recovered, was immediately back shooting quips as pain throbbed through his jaw, and that was how the hour went by, until two men in black suits dragged an unconscious Hannibal Smith into the room, and everyone fell dead silent. Everyone but Vance, at least, who simply laughed and grinned.

And its dead silent once more, now that there's a gun on the table, and Hannibal is awake, and everything seems a hell of a lot colder.

Its broken by Hannibal, of course, his voice low; commanding, and threatening. A colonel's tone. "Don't make this any worse, Lynch," is the rumbling warning.

"Worse? Why, this isn't going bad for me at all, Smith. In fact, everything is going _exactly_ as I'd hoped." As if on cue, those men in the black suits step on over, coming from the shadows as if they were a part of them themselves, arms full of files. Folders and notebooks, stuffed full, are placed down on the table before Hannibal; Vance leaves the gun where it lays and more or less skips over. Snatching up a folder and skimming through it. " _Exactly_ as I'd hoped," he repeats.

Murdock watches the man ponder over a few pages in the folder for a long while, as his lips purse, and his fidgeting returns. Notes the way that Hannibal's eyes remain locked on Lynch and narrowed, not flickering over to them once. Notes how BA is glaring at the man as well, and how Face is still staring at that gun. Notes as well how, after a few more minutes, Lynch flips the file over and holds it up for Hannibal to read – and sees how the man's expression instantly changes. In the blink of an eye.

And Murdock can't help but wonder if that scene from an hour ago? So different? Had been the last calm time together the A-Team would ever have.


End file.
